


The Return(yet again)

by notjustmom



Series: Doodahs and Whatnots [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, If You Squint - Freeform, M/M, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-14
Updated: 2016-08-14
Packaged: 2018-08-08 17:12:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7766371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notjustmom/pseuds/notjustmom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the return, take #235 (more or less) I keep rewriting Sherlock's return from the dead, simply because I can <3</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Return(yet again)

"Any other patients?" John muttered to his receptionist. He rubbed his eyes and waited for her bored, slightly whiny voice to tell him the waiting room was empty and that she was done for the day.

"Just one, Dr. Watson." Mycroft Holmes walked into his consulting room and John froze.

"No."

"Hear me out."

"NO. Get out, now. Or I will remove you."

The man across from him sighed, pulled out a folded sheet of paper, hesitated for the briefest of moments, then placed it in front of John. "Close your office and take a walk, Dr. Watson. You are needed." And with a slight bow, Mycroft left his rooms; he heard the bell jangle madly, seeming much too loud for some reason to John's ears. He picked up the paper, unfolded it and blinked as he recognised the uneven scrawl. 

221 B Baker Street. Please.

John pinched his nose, but got up from his chair, pushed it in, walked to the door and turned off the light. He grabbed his jacket, and locked the office. It was bitterly cold, but he couldn't bear the thought of being shut up in a cab, so he walked the mile and a half to his old flat, the rooms he had once shared...with a man who had been dead for two years. 

"No." The man who sat on the steps looked up at him. His hair was immaculate as it always had been, but the long, dark coat seemed two sizes too big for him, the white shirt was new, but it hung badly on his slight frame. He looked like a small boy playing dress up in his father's clothes.

"John?"

"No. Please. I - you. You are dead."

"No. Not last time I checked." The man on the stoop tried to stand up, but his knees began to crumple under him.

"Sher- stop." John held him in his arms, and felt him shiver. He could feel his ribs through the layers of bespoke clothing. "God - it is you. Why-"

"I - did - it - beca -" Sherlock's teeth chattered.

"No. Why aren't you inside, it's too bloody cold to be sitting out here." John pulled away to examine his friend.

"Seem to have misplaced my keys..." Sherlock made a show of patting down his pockets.

"Sorry, I'm an idiot."

"Uhm. No, I believe that should be my line?" Sherlock muttered, then whimpered slightly as he turned away.

"Wait, please?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No, you - you have a new life, you don't need -"

"No. No, you don't get to tell me what I need. Or want." John pulled Sherlock back into his arms and felt his friend relax against him.

"I'm sorry, John." Sherlock mumbled against his shoulder.

"Let's get you upstairs, yeah? Tomorrow we'll deal with tomorrow."

"And the day after that?"

"Don't get cocky."


End file.
